::FATE::
Over the weekend, the top two shelves of one of my bookshelves collapsed. (Fortunately, they fell
in and
down instead of catalyzing a gravitational-potential-energy-fueled explosion into my living room.)
At the top of the reorganized heap rested
Godel, Escher, Bach, the shadowcast initials on its cover realigning my perspective, tugging my vanishing point into its parallel branes, daring me to be smart enough to read it.
I accepted the dare. I've engaged in its recursive games and have triumphed. To show for it, I have a swirl of ideas -- connexions, hypermemes, fugues -- flying around my head. And I'm only on Chapter Two.